What it is
by nicevenn
Summary: Sequel to What it is Not. Here we see each section from the prequel from Thranduil's POV.
1. It is Selfish

Elvish terms:  
elleth - female elf  
Adar - Father  
ion nín - my son

"I am truly sorry," Thranduil whispers as he leads her toward the door.

It is the second time his son has interrupted them just as they were about to make love. Thranduil can tell by her weary smile that she won't want to return again, and when he notices the contempt with which she glances over his shoulder at Legolas, he realizes it's for the best. He bids her good night, all the warmth suddenly gone from his voice – for no elleth, no matter how beautiful she may be, has the right to look upon his son with disdain.

When she is gone, Thranduil turns and approaches the bed with a sigh. Legolas may already be of age, but the king can't bear to send his son away when he is afraid. "Was it the spiders again?"

"Yes," Legolas says, glancing up quickly, as if startled out of a daze.

Thranduil looks down to where his son's eyes had been fixed, and the blood rushes to his face when he sees the sticky, wet stain on the front of his night robe, which he'd donned hastily upon Legolas' arrival. He excuses himself for a moment, pulls on a pair of thin trousers, and tosses the robe aside before getting in bed and taking his son in his arms.

Legolas' muscles relax at the contact, and he releases a contented sigh.

"You are a warrior now, Legolas," Thranduil says. "You must not fear the creatures of darkness." He does not bring up the fact that soon Legolas will have to demonstrate his fighting skills in the real world, but the knowledge lies unspoken between them.

"I know, Adar."

Thranduil tightens his arms around Legolas and breathes in the fresh scent of his hair. "You are going to be all right, ion nín. Everything is going to be all right."


	2. It is Wrong

Thranduil doesn't need to look over his shoulder to see who has entered the library. He recognizes his son's barely audible footsteps, the rhythm of his breath.

"I heard you fought well," he says, trailing his fingers along the spines of the books, looking for something with which to occupy his mind.

"I killed many spiders, yes." There is a hint of amusement in Legolas' voice that prompts Thranduil to turn around and meet his gaze. But the mirth in his son's eyes fades, replaced by a combination of ferocity and single-minded determination that makes him shiver. "I will always keep you safe, Adar."

Many years have passed since Legolas last came to Thranduil's bedchamber late at night, trembling as he recounted nightmares in which he'd been unable to save his father from the spiders. Clearly time had not erased the impact of those dreams.

Thranduil smiles and places a hand on his son's shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. "I know."

He takes in a sharp breath when Legolas pulls him into his arms. Heat floods his body as he returns the embrace. Legolas buries his face in the crook of his neck, and Thranduil has to turn his head away. The air seems to have thickened, making it difficult to breathe.

"I have missed you, Ada." Legolas lifts his head again, and his breath tickles Thranduil's ear as he adds, "And I do not just mean while I was away on patrol."

"Yes, I have been so preoccupied…" Thranduil chokes out, because he is sure Legolas is referring to the fact that they haven't dined or gone hunting together recently, not the times they'd held each other like this in the past, when Legolas was younger and it still bordered on acceptable.

"With what, I wonder?"

He almost isn't sure if the feather-light touch of Legolas' lips on his earlobe is real or imagined, but it sends a shiver up his spine. He pulls away sharply, and Legolas loosens his hold on him and drops his arms to his sides.

"Forgive me, Adar. I do not know what came over me."


	3. It is Depraved

This is his last chance. He can still say no, push Legolas away, put a stop to this madness… But he does none of these things. Instead, he holds his son's gaze as Legolas kneels between his legs, sliding his hands higher and higher up his thighs.

Their fingers meet over the bulge in his trousers— Legolas starts working on the lacings, and Thranduil can't decide if he's trying to stop him or help him.

But his hands fall away when Legolas reaches in and grabs hold of his cock. "Oh—"

This is it now. They've been fighting this battle for decades, and Legolas has finally won. Thranduil slumps in his chair and turns away even as he spreads his legs a little wider. He can't look. The shame is unbearable.

His eyes flutter closed at the feel of soft, wet kisses starting at his balls and moving up the length of his shaft. Legolas gives a blissful sigh when he reaches the tip, and Thranduil can no longer keep himself from looking. His eyes fly open, and he turns back just in time to see Legolas take him in his mouth.

The wet heat that engulfs him draws a strangled moan from his throat. He reaches out hesitantly, as if he might get burned, and drags the backs of his fingers along Legolas' cheekbone before threading them through his hair.

"Yes," he hisses, pulling his son closer by the hair and arching into his mouth. And Legolas allows it. He swallows the entire length, again and again, pulling away only when Thranduil gets dangerously close to the edge.

"I see you have been practicing more than just your fighting skills," Thranduil says once he regains his breath. His voice is tight because he feels sick at the thought of Legolas pleasuring another in this way.

"Only so I can better serve my king." Legolas wipes his mouth and begins stroking him slowly. "So, what did you think of that guard?"

"What?"

"The blond one," Legolas says. "The one you took to your bed." His fingers tighten around his shaft. "Did he drive you mad with desire? Or did he dutifully submit to your every whim, afraid that any initiative on his part might inspire your wrath?"

Thranduil gives a short laugh. He had tried so hard to be discreet, certain that if Legolas were to find out about that little rendezvous he would see right through it. Not that it mattered now.

"You must be careful whom you trust, Adar. People are eager to let you bed them, because you are wealthy and powerful—and you wear your glamour so well—" Thranduil tenses at the mention of his use of glamoury; it is all too easy to forget that there are those who know the truth, who have seen how he really looks.

Legolas meets his gaze as his hand continues to work Thranduil's cock. "They may love what you represent, but they do not love you. Not like I do."

Legolas licks him from the balls and all the way up to the head of his cock, tongue dipping into the slit to collect the fluid that has gathered there, and Thranduil cannot help the sigh that escapes his lips.

"I love you too, Legolas. More than you will ever know." He brushes a strand of hair away from his son's face. "You are everything to me."

Legolas takes him in his mouth again, and it feels incredible, but Thranduil can no longer hold back the question that has been sitting on the tip of his tongue—though it shames him to no end. "What would you have done with me? If it had been you in my bed, and not the guard?"

Legolas pulls away with a soft, wet sound. "I would have spoiled you, Ada. And I will, if you let me." He starts putting a little twist into each stroke of his hand. Thranduil lets his head fall back, but he can feel Legolas gauging his reaction to every word that follows. "I'll push you back against the pillows and kiss you everywhere. I'll stick my tongue up your arse, while stroking you like this, until you beg for mercy. Then I'll fill you my cock—slowly—so you feel every inch of me… After that, we'll see. Either I'll make sweet love to you or fuck you so hard you'll forget your name. Or both."

Thranduil's climax hits him fast and hard. He cries out and grips Legolas' shoulder, watching as his come pulses from the tip of his cock and spills over Legolas' knuckles and the backs of his fingers.

"Would you like that, Ada?"


	4. It is Manipulative

Elvish terms

Adar - father  
ion nin- my son  
melethron - lover

The sounds of revelry are growing fainter and fainter. Anor will rise in a couple of hours, and Thranduil is fast losing hope that Legolas will come to him, as they have not spoken since their disagreement that morning. He himself left the festivities early, retiring to his chambers with a flask of Dorwinion wine and a small glimmer of hope that his son would follow.

But that was three goblets ago. One more goblet and he would finally succumb to sleep. He doesn't hear the footsteps over the sound of pouring wine, so his heart misses a beat when the door opens and his beloved prince steps inside.

"You came…"

Thranduil sets the flask down and rushes to greet him. The fingers of one hand are still absently clenching his robes over the cold knot in his stomach. Once, the feeling would have faded as soon as Legolas entered his chambers, but of late it persists even while they are together—a constant, painful reminder of their imminent separation.

"Would you rather I had not?"

"I am glad you are here." He drags his fingertips over the silver patterns of Legolas' tunic, remembering with a pang of jealousy how many eyes had watched him as he laughed and drank and sang under the stars. "You looked stunning tonight."

Legolas looks away without a word, but Thranduil touches his cheek and turns face back towards him. "Do not do this, Legolas. Do not turn away from me. I cannot bear it."

Their eyes meet, and he finds more in Legolas' gaze than he can read. It unnerves him, but he presses on. "You pushed me too far this morning, ion nín. I cannot always agree to your demands—and it was disrespectful of you to question my judgment in front of the others."

"Yes, Adar," Legolas says, but his tone and the tension in his body, along with the lack of an apology, tell him he is only making the situation worse.

"I am sorry I spoke so harshly," Thranduil adds, leaning in to press a kiss to Legolas' jawline—because where words fail to appease him, carnal pleasures usually do. "Perhaps I can help you find relief from your anger?" He leans in even closer, until their lips brush. "Please, melethron. Within these chambers, I am yours to do with as you wish."

The knot in his stomach tightens as he prods Legolas to react to him—it has never taken so long before.

At last Legolas' lips part against his own. Thranduil pulls him closer, fingers digging into his waist as he deepens the kiss, but as time passes he realizes that Legolas has not yet touched him; his arms are tense at his sides and held away as if to avoid Thranduil's hands.

Thranduil pulls away. "What is wrong?"

"Put on your crown, Adar, lest I forget again that you are king."

"Legolas…"

"Wear it. There is nothing that would please me more."

Thranduil realizes he should have known it wouldn't be that easy. It never is. They never manage to settle into a particular rhythm for long. As soon as he thinks he has found the path of least resistance in dealing with his son's moods, Legolas changes the rules of the game.

Frowning, Thranduil walks over to the carved wooden stand that holds his crown and picks it up. The spring flowers threaded through it that morning have not yet wilted. He hesitates for a moment. The thought of using this symbol of his power and his sacred connection to the forest in this way is revolting, but ultimately the crown is only that—a symbol.

He can feel Legolas' eyes on his back, so he sets it on top of his head and turns to face him.

"My king…" Legolas drops to one knee and bows down low.

This display of mock reverence sets Thranduil's blood to boil. He knows that that's exactly what Legolas wants, too, and it only serves to make him angrier.

"Get up!"

Legolas shakes his head, still staring at the ground. "I am unworthy of standing in your presence, my lord."

Thranduil grabs him by the arm and pulls him up with a snarl. "You will do as I command."

A pleasant thrill surges through him despite his anger. Legolas swallows hard and nods. "Yes, my lord." He is still putting on a performance—but underneath it Thranduil senses an inkling of surprise and anticipation.

"You think I have grown weak," he hisses against Legolas' ear. He breathes in his scent as he kisses down his neck, relieved not to find the lingering fragrance of another lover and furious that he has reason to entertain such thoughts in the first place. "And I have, where you are concerned. But this is where it ends."

It is an empty threat, and they both know it. Because even as he drags Legolas to the bed, pushes down his trousers, and takes him with savage force—all with a crown atop his head—he is not the one in control.


	5. It is Cruel

Elvish terms:

Adar/Ada - Father/Dad  
ion nín - my son  
melethron nín - my lover

Night after night, for months now, Thranduil has been having the same dream. He is lying alone deep the forest, bound and paralyzed—helpless. He cannot even cry out for help. Legolas will come, he tells himself, desperate to believe it, but he knows that Legolas will not save him. He is too far away. The horrid stench of evil fills his lungs as the spiders descend on him.

So this is how it ends. He doesn't panic; instead, a feeling of deep calm washes over him, and he succumbs to it willingly. Finally, it is over.

The dream ends. His eyes refocus, and he remembers his conversation with Legolas yesterday. Now he does panic.

Thranduil jumps up from the bed and throws on his robe. He leaves his chambers without a care for his appearance, breathing a sigh of relief when he bursts into Legolas' quarters and finds him there, closing up his pack. "Legolas…"

"Adar." A sad smile graces Legolas' lips as he looks up at him.

"I do not wish for you to go to Imladris," Thranduil says. He knows he has a better chance of succeeding if he doesn't expressly forbid his son from making the journey. "We can send someone else to inform Elrond of…the situation."

He steps further into the room and takes Legolas in his arms, inhales the fragrance of his hair—like the forest after a soft, spring rain. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Legolas pulls away and looks at him, smile gone. "But it is I who must go, not anyone else. It is due to my own folly that Sméagol has escaped." His eyes darken with a flash of remorse, enabling Thranduil to read what he leaves unsaid. I treated that abominable creature better than I have treated you.

"Besides," Legolas adds, "I feel there is much we can learn as a result of this journey. It is best that I go myself."

Thranduil clings tighter to Legolas, his lithe form heavy with dread and despair. But he knows that Legolas is right; it is selfish and unwise to ask him to stay.

Legolas backs him slowly into the wall, places his hands on either side of him, surrounding him like a sheath. "It is no longer enough to protect you, and our people, from within our borders, Ada. There is more that I must do—though I know not yet what."

"Yes, you are right." Thranduil's voice comes out strained. It pains him to make this admission. "I have sensed it, too."

The heat radiating from Legolas' body makes him lightheaded. It has been so long since they've last lain together. He reaches out and slides a hand slowly from his son's belly up to his chest, eyes probing. If only Legolas would make love to him one last time, it would give him something to hold on to while he is away.

Legolas' tongue peeks out briefly from between his lips, leaving them parted and glistening. He looks like he's about to lean in. Thranduil's heartbeat quickens, blood rushing in his ears. For a moment the world stands still, as if it is going to set itself right, but then Legolas pushes away from the wall and turns on his heel.

"Farewell, Adar."

Thranduil cannot reply; his voice fails him. All he can do is watch Legolas' retreating back as he sinks to the ground, the floor caving beneath his feet.

Farewell, ion nín. Melethron nín.


End file.
